


Filled

by VagrantWriter



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Force-Feeding, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Past Torture, Torture, fake!mpreg, messed up shit in here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 16:28:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3141056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VagrantWriter/pseuds/VagrantWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even Ramsay's apologies are cruel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Filled

**Author's Note:**

> *The torture device Ramsay mentions is a choke pear: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Choke_pear_%28torture%29

Theon had not eaten in weeks and this was a trick. The food was steaming and warm. It smelled so good, and everything had been chosen with perfect care for mending (and unmendable) teeth. He crammed the knuckles of his fist into his mouth to keep from drooling. His first night out of the dungeons and he wouldn’t go ruining it by slobbering all over Ramsay’s bed sheets. Nor would he ruin it by taking the bait before him.

His withered stomach cried for relief, but it wasn’t his to give. He cast a furtive glance at Ramsay to gauge whether he was passing or failing this test. Not that it mattered. He’d lose either way.

Ramsay pushed the tray forward, coaxing a shy dog. “Go ahead, pet. The maester says you’re ready to eat again.”

It was a cruel, cruel trick.

When he made no move, Ramsay sighed in frustration and came around to sit on the bed next to him. He dwarfed Theon in his shadow. Was he growing bigger every day, or was Theon simply shrinking? Losing himself?

“You need to eat. Stop that.” He grabbed Theon’s wrist and wrenched his fist from his mouth. Jagged, broken teeth left scratches along Theon’s knuckles, and Ramsay tsk’d. “You have my permission to eat.”

Theon was beginning to wonder if it would be worth it to give in. How many bites could he get before the trick was revealed? Before he was dragged back to the dungeons and put back on the cross? Was it worth it just to have something—anything—in his stomach?

He jumped when he felt a hand caressing his jaw. It was still sore, and if Ramsay had wanted to break it again, all he had to do was twist. Theon remembered the crack it had made, the absolute agony that had blinded him for a minute. The worst as he thrashed on the floor, unable to answer Ramsay’s incensed questions about what was wrong with him.

“I’m sorry,” Ramsay said now as he stroked the gaunt face with a gentleness that was appreciated but not exactly comforting. “For this.”

Theon swallowed and tore his eyes from the food. Ramsay never apologized to him. Ramsay never apologized to anyone.

“I overestimated your ability to play with me.” His face was all mock sympathy. Which was appropriate. This was a mock apology.

He meant to draw attention to yet another of Theon’s failings. Worse, it worked. A trained panic set in, the one Theon felt whenever he failed to please his master. It always brought swift pain.

“Tell you what.” Ramsay slapped his knees and stood, a delighted vigor to his step. “I promise not to use the pear on you any more if you eat.” He picked up a honey-soaked cake and held it under Theon’s nose. “Now eat, before I get angry.”

Theon didn’t know what the trick was, but he realized the goal of this game was for him to take the bait. He grabbed the cake and shoved it in his mouth, double-handed. The sweetness sang on his tongue for a brief moment before he swallowed, scarcely chewing.

Ramsay smiled, pleased. Good, Theon hadn’t failed him this time.

Theon dug in, shoveling everything on the plate into his mouth, ignoring taste altogether. He paused just long enough to wash it down with water, hardly at all to breathe.

Ramsay laughed when he finished and began licking the plate. “I thought you might be hungry after a month of gruel.”

Gruel? Was that what he was calling the watery broth Theon had been forced to eat as his jaw healed?

“Shall I send for more?”

Before Theon could answer— _yes, definitely yes_ —Ramsay was clapping his hands. The door opened and a small serving girl bearing a too-large tray wobbled in. She was having a time of it, too, and Ramsay tapped his foot impatiently against the stone floors. The girl gave a squeak and hurried her step.

In the time it took her to cross the room, the food had had time to settle in Theon’s stomach. He realized he was full.

Nonetheless, the old tray was cleared and the new one set before him. The serving girl bowed and flew from the room, the tapping of her shoes following behind her.

Ramsay let her go. “Go ahead,” he said lifting the lid to reveal a second meal. “Help yourself.”

He did, tentatively and with much less enthusiasm than before. He took a soft roll because it was one of the more difficult things to eat and he could chew slowly with his back teeth. When it became a soft mush in the back of his throat, he finally swallowed. His stomach protested with a quivering groan, but Ramsay watched expectantly for him to reach for the next bite.

“You’re not full already, are you?”

“No, my lord, but…”

“Then eat.”

Theon swallowed thickly. It felt like the roll was trying to work its way back up, but he took up the fork and began spearing small bits of scrambled egg. Apparently he was taking too long, because Ramsay sighed in impatience, never a good sound. A moment later, a large hand was on his throat, tilting his head back, and a forkful of egg was being stuffed into his mouth. Instinct had him struggling, but that only made the grip tighter against his sore jaw. He should have known better by now; he should have known not to fight. He forced himself to relax as another helping was shoveled in.

He swallowed. Obediently, he swallowed everything Ramsay gave him, closing his eyes each time and focusing on simply getting the next bite to the back of his throat and down his gorge. He couldn’t focus on the tight, pinched feeling in his stomach, the stretching of skin, the way he could hardly breathe for how his organs were being reshaped, refitted inside.

Ramsay kept feeding him, but what he needed was water. His tongue was so dry. He couldn’t chew, couldn’t even mimic the motions of chewing. His entire mouth was leather, sandpaper, cotton, either so painful it was numb or so numb it hurt.

He didn’t know how long it went on. It felt like forever, like it would never end, but he’d become good at counting seconds. Because in this place, seconds turned into minutes, and if you were lucky, minutes would eventually turn into the end of your misery. For a while.

And eventually it did end. Ramsay used his hand to get the last scrap in and then he released his grip. It still felt like he was being choked, even as Ramsay set the tray aside. For one brief, horrible moment, he feared yet another tray would be brought in, but Ramsay simply set the thing on the floor for the next waif-like serving girl to collect.

He was beyond thankful for the reprieve. It felt as though he were carrying heavy stones in his stomach, or some restless creature trying to claw its way out. It hurt, but he’d had worse. _Much worse_ , he shuddered. And he was fed. It was preferable to the constant, hollow aching of an empty stomach. It was a kindness, an apology, even if Ramsay had to mark it with his own particular brand of cruelty.

His stomach gave a jolt, and he feared he would lose his dinner, the first meal he’d had in weeks, but it was simply a belch forcing its way out of his mouth.

Ramsay’s chuckling alerted him to the other man climbing into bed next to him. “You made such a glutton of yourself.” He kicked off his boots and sidled up next to him. “I suppose it’s to be expected of someone in your condition.” He pushed Theon back into the pillows, laying him out flat.

Theon knew what was coming next. He hoped he be allowed to…to remain upright, at least. Sometimes Ramsay liked to make him do the work, using his own pitiful limbs to set the motion and rhythm. He doubted he had the strength necessary for it tonight, but there was absolutely no way he would be able to bear Ramsay’s weight tonight. Not on his back, and certainly not on his stomach.

But aside from the boots, Ramsay made no attempts to undress, nor attempts to undress Theon. Instead, he lay down and pulled Theon closer, one of his impossibly large hands on the swell of Theon’s body.

_This is it_ , Theon realized. _The trick. He’s going to push down, force it all out of me again_. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“How far along are you?”

He opened his eyes and looked over his shoulder questioningly.

“How many months, idiot?”

“How many…?”

Ramsay rolled his eyes. “I thought women were supposed to _know_ these things.”

_Women? He wasn’t a—_

Theon continued to stare at him as the horrifying picture came together. _How far along are you? How many months?_ _Someone in your condition_. A game, that’s what this was. A sick game. What did Ramsay want from it, though? That was the question. That was always the question.

He was still waiting for an answer, waiting for Theon to play the game. _Well, how far along are you?_ Theon’s panicked mind raced back to Winterfell. He’d seen Lady Stark grow large with child three times, and he tried to place the curve of her stomach against his own at the moment, pitiful as it was in comparison. “Two months?” he offered and cringed, waiting for a response.

Ramsay grinned and gave his belly a soft pat. Theon hated to admit it, but that did ease the pain. “Do you remember when I put it in you? Do you remember the exact moment and place?”

“Yes,” Theon answered and hoped he wouldn’t be asked any follow-up questions. If so, he would give a generic answer, all the separate times having since blurred in his mind.

“Hmm,” Ramsay mused, now rubbing small circles in the fabric of his patchy shirt. “You must be very proud. An ugly, unwanted thing like you is carrying my heir, who will someday be Warden of the North.”

Theon choked on some emotion he couldn’t name. He had so much trouble naming them these days. “Yes,” he answered thickly. His tongue felt too swollen to talk. “I am. Thank you.”

Ramsay’s smile faltered. His hand stopped moving. “I wonder, though. Is it really mine?” In a flash, he was on top of Theon, using large hands to brace himself over the pitifully small creature beneath. “You’re a slut, Reek. I know it. All of the Dreadfort knows it. How do I know it’s really mine?”

His weight just barely skimmed Theon’s stomach, threatening to press down. He was so big. Theon wasn’t just shrinking by the day, he was shrinking by the minute. He could only shake his head as fearful tears welled up in his eyes. “It’s yours. I promise it’s yours.”

“ _You promise_?” Ramsay mocked. “You’ve been with all of my men at least once.”

Theon didn’t respond. Unlike with Ramsay, he could remember each and every time on the Bastard’s Boys had taken him.

“Before that, you probably let every Ironborn piece of shit have his way with you.”

“No. No, you were the first.”

“And before that,” Ramsay continued, ignoring him, “you let the Starks fuck you. All of them. Don’t deny it. Everyone in the North knows it.” He bared his teeth. “So tell me, Reek, how I can be certain this is mine?” He pressed down, hard, on Theon’s stomach with his hand, and Theon felt bile rise in his gorge. “I don’t want any bastard Snows. Maybe I should just cut it out of you and start again.”

His eyes were boring into Theon.

_He’ll do it_ , Theon thought. _He’ll cut me open_. Whether this was still part of the game or Ramsay had come to believe his own delusion, he _would_ take a knife to Theon’s stomach.

Theon froze as his mind raced.

_Give him an answer he’ll like_.

His mouth began to move on its own. “It’s yours, my lord.”

Ramsay’s face went slack as he waited the appropriate answer.

“Only…only you are good enough. O-only you can go deep enough, get s-so d-deep in me. Your seed is the only one strong enough to take root in my…m-my w-w-womb.” He gritted his teeth to force the last part out. Then he waited.

Ramsay regarded him with cold, pale eyes. Theon didn’t dare look away.

“Reek.”

He flinched.

“You’re an idiot.”

“I know, my lord.”

“But sometimes you can be quite clever.” He patted Theon’s cheek with a gentle affection. “Did you enjoy your dinner?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good.” With a sigh, he rolled back to his spot on the mattress. He pulled Theon close, flush up against his body, and let his hands linger on the bulge of his belly. Gentle again, but in a way that sent chills tingling down Theon’s spine. “Sometimes…I wish…”

Theon tensed, but Ramsay didn’t say anything else. After long moments of silence, his master’s breathing evened out in a peaceful sleep.

Theon’s stomach gurgled sourly, and he worked to keep his food down.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is my first foray into fanfiction ever. Let me know what you think. Readable? Or should I go sit in the corner and think about what I've done?


End file.
